


My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun

by orphan_account



Series: piece by piece, rubble to rubble [4]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s02e10 Noel, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23187157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In the aftermath of Rosslyn, Josh quietly falls apart. Donna quietly puts him back together again.CODA to “Noel”
Relationships: Josh Lyman/Donna Moss, pre - Relationship
Series: piece by piece, rubble to rubble [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644367
Comments: 11
Kudos: 143





	My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Emily Dickinson’s poem “ My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun” and everything else is from my quarantined ass being bored as hell. I live in DC so I’m doubly not allowed to leave the house rn ✌️ Hope you all are staying safe! Come talk to me on tumblr @ta1k-less

Josh doesn’t really notice it happening. It’s not like a switch flips or he just snaps. It slowly creeps up on him, a high tide around his ankles, the static in his ears, until he’s drowning. 

  
Doors shut too loudly, people talk too much.

His chest hurts all the time and he’s scared to go to his cardiologist so he pretends it’s acid reflux. Everything pisses him off and he just can’t fucking sleep. He hears trumpets in the hallway, Toby showing a small amount of the goodwill towards men he holds locked deep in his heart, and feels a jolt of adrenaline make his weary heart beat faster.

And now, he’s late for a goddamn meeting. Jesus, can nothing go right anymore? Can anything happen the way it used to? The meeting started five minutes ago but he needed to find that file-

It’s not on his desk. God, he can’t even think, he can hear the fucking sirens outside-

Josh wants to bang his head, real hard, against the window, but suppresses the urge long enough to instead swing open his door.

“Can we keep it down out here? It’s like a damn hockey game, Christ!” He yells wildly at anyone in the bullpen who might be listening.

“Do you need something?” Donna’s head pops up from her desk, and she’s wearing that expression that means she’s very plainly worried about something.

“My HHS file, I can’t find it-“

“It’s on your desk. Can I help you with something?”

(She really means, do you need help?)

Josh meets her eyes for a half second, and that’s half a second too long. He feels all sorts of emotions well up that he just doesn’t have time or energy or willpower to deal with, so he pushes them all the way back down. He gives her a curt nod and slams the door back into his office.

It’s on his desk. Donna put it there this morning, like he asked her too, and she’s made notes and annotated what she needed to.

His door opens again, and Josh’s head whips up, ready to snap at whoever couldn’t leave him alone for ten seconds.

But it’s Donna, and she’s slipped in and closed the door real quiet, and is now leaning against it with her arms folded. Her expression is neutral- demure, even- but Josh knows perfectly well that she won’t let him out of this office until she’s decided to.

“Josh.” She says. It’s gentle and soft and for fucking once someone isn’t yelling or criticizing or asking something of him. Like she cares, almost. Josh squeezes his nails into his palms.

“I’m fine. I’m just tired.” He says. It’s almost a reflex at this point. 

“You’ve been saying that for weeks. Have you been sleeping?”

Last night he tossed and turned and staved off nightmares till 5, finally fell asleep, and woke up to his alarm at 6 in a cold sweat.

“Enough,” he lies.

“I think you need to see Dr. Chung.” She says.

“Donna, I’m late for my meeting.”

“I’m serious-“

“So am I.”

“Josh.” This time it’s a little more firm.

She knows.

Does she know?

“I’m just tired, Donna.”

“Okay.”

She gives in and allows him to move her away from the door, and she follows him down the hall to the meeting.

“You’d tell me otherwise, right?” She asks as he rounds the corner into the communications bullpen.

“What, you want me to keep a sleep diary?” Josh deflects.

“No, Josh, I want you to be honest about if you’re-“

“Donna, I’m fine.” He turns around and faces her. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Quit asking.”

“Fine.” But it’s not angry. She shrugs a little. And then she turns on her heel and marches out of the bullpen, and Josh drags himself into another meeting he’s inevitably going to either lose interest or his temper in. 

* * *

He thinks about it as he’s pouring himself cereal, late that night. He doesn’t know what time it is, only that it’s late enough that DC is mostly asleep, and the only thing playing on TV is infomercials, and that he desperately wishes he was tired.

The kid was so young. 28? And a pilot. He was young and successful and flying fighter jets.

Something had to have been wrong. What was wrong with him? Healthy people don’t just...

The milk overflows from the bowl and Josh hisses a curse and grabs the nearest towel to sop it up.

He sits on the couch and watches the infomercial and mechanically chews the heart-healthy granola Donna forced him to buy and wonders about planes and mountains.

* * *

It’s like he sees red more often. He can’t process what’s in front of him anymore, it’s just noise and static and pain and screaming. That’s what happens in the Oval Office.

When the color dissipates, he’s standing with his hands balled and sweat on his forehead and the President’s giving him an indiscernible look. Leo orders him to his office, and Josh feels himself leave the room and sit on the edge of Leo’s couch, but he’s just so fucking tired, he can’t even figure out what he’s supposed to be doing anymore. Leo says he has to talk to someone and Josh wants to keep his job, so he just agrees and hides in his office for the rest of the day.

* * *

Donna ties his bow tie for the party, like she always does.

She’s wearing a red dress that’s tight on her hips and her hair is curly and she’s just.

As beautiful as she’s always been.

She pats his chest when she finishes tying it, and gives him a small smile, and Josh doesn’t feel patronized when she offers him her hand for a few seconds as they walk through the abandoned office to the party.

* * *

Yo Yo Ma does rule.

He really does. He’s incredibly talented and Joanie would have loved this but the tuxedo is suddenly too heavy and hot and there’s something really bitter in his mouth and the cello isn’t cello there’s someone screaming and sirens and pain and his chest-

Applause. A warm hand on his shoulder.

“Josh, there’s a phone call for you.” Donna is saying quietly, but not too quietly. Josh nods and gets up from his chair and sees Toby and CJ right next to him, giving worried glances and telling Donna they’ll sneak away when they can, just get him out-

He’s not really aware of walking out, only that he’s suddenly in a very quiet hallway and he’s shaking and sweating and Donna is sitting next to him.

She doesn’t say anything to him and she doesn’t ask any questions. She just sits and mercifully pretends not to see that there’s tears in his eyes.

“I,” he tries after a few minutes, when he can lift his hands without shaking, and his heart stops trying to explode. His mouth is really dry. “I, it was just like I was back at. The, you know,”

“Yeah.” Donna snakes a hand into one of his and squeezes, tight. “I know. CJ paged me.”

“Paged you?”

“Yeah, she said something was wrong and to get you out.”

“Oh.” He rests his head on the cool wall behind him and makes no move to disentangle his hand from Donna’s. “I didn’t realize they could see.”

“Josh,” Donna turns and looks at him. “It’s pretty obvious.”

“What is?”

“This. Whatever this is.”

“It’s not anything.” He says irritably.

“Josh, it’s-“

“It’s not anything.” He repeats.

Donna doesn’t rebut him, for once. She stretches her legs out and crosses them at the ankle, her left foot just barely touching Josh’s. She’s looking at him, clearly searching for something in his face, and Josh thinks he may be a few seconds away from saying something he can’t.

“I have to go.” He says abruptly. He stands up and runs his hand through sweaty curls and tries to find his car keys.

“Josh-“ Donna scrambles up too and has a hand on his chest. “Come on, stay-“

“What, and have another, whatever that was, in front of the entirety of Congress and the President and everybody?”  
He finds his keys.

“Okay.” Donna allows. “Okay. Call me when you get home?”

“Yeah.” Josh says.

He starts to walk down the hallway, the low level buzzing in his ears making everything seem urgent. But he stops and wheels around. Donna is standing in the middle of the hallway in a red dress, bare arms crossed over each other. He abruptly goes back and kisses her forehead.

He doesn’t know why. He can’t explain it. This just feels important.

“I will. Thank you.” He says softly. Donna is wide-eyed and again searching him, trying to figure out what just happened, and she’s got on red lipstick and that perfume CJ gave her smells good but it’s making him nauseous so he leaves again.

* * *

He doesn’t call her, when he gets home. He pours a glass of whiskey and puts his hand through a window.

There’s a second when he stares at the broken glass, at the searing pain in his hand for once bringing him back to reality, a clear head, and wonders if maybe the rest of him should follow.

Then there’s banging on the door and he has to answer.

* * *

It’s still stinging, the next morning. He clumsily pulls out the larger shards still stuck, doesn’t bother cleaning it, wraps it in gauze left over from his last open wound, and heads into work, thinking the entire time about how he’s going to lie his way out of this one.

“I broke a glass.” He says easily, when Donna gives him a questioning stare. She’s got her head leaning on his door frame, wearing a navy sweater and a collar under it and looking, oddly, very tired.

“You broke a glass?” She repeats.

“Yeah. I poured myself a drink and it slipped.” Josh says. He’s tired, he’s fucking exhausted, but he can think today. Every time he gets fuzzy, he flexes his hand and the shooting pain is enough to bring him back to the ground.

“Are you sure?”

She gives him one last out.

He doesn’t take it.

“Yeah, Donna, I’m sure.”

“Okay.” She hands him a memo. “Senior Staff in a few minutes.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

He doesn’t make it to Senior Staff. He sees Donna hop on the phone as he’s walking away and by the time he makes it to Leo’s office, Leo is standing outside the door, arms crossed, and telling him in no uncertain terms that there’s someone downstairs he has to talk to and this is not a negotiation and go, now.

Josh knows Leo isn’t fucking around, so he goes.

And it lasts hours.  
Stanley probes and probes and asks over and overs, how did you hurt your hand, Josh? Stop lying to me, Josh.

By the end of the day, Josh is exhausted and feels about 20 pounds lighter, and oddly, the label they give him, the one he’s only heard attached to soldiers and veterans and survivors of disaster, makes everything make a little more sense.  
  
Stanley smiles and recommends a therapist in DC and wishes Josh a Merry Christmas, and he’s actually forgotten it’s Christmas Eve.

Which is why he’s so surprised when Donna appears in the doorway after Leo is finished telling him a story, with his coat and a resolute look in her eyes.

She walks him out the door without saying anything, and they’re all the way to Josh’s car, his keys having been surrendered to Donna several minutes ago, before he stops and thinks to ask,

“Shouldn’t you be in Wisconsin? It’s Christmas.”

Donna shrugs, unlocks the car, and slides in the driver’s seat.

“You’ve been hurting, Josh. I wasn’t going to leave you.”

“Oh.”

She starts the car and they begin the short trek to George Washington. It’s not the closest hospital, but Josh has a team there.

There’s a red light, and Donna tucks her hair behind her ears.

“I didn’t break a glass.” Josh says suddenly.

Donna tightens her grip on the steering wheel.

“I know.” She says.

“I hit the window.” Josh says. It’s easier to say now, since he’s admitted it to Stanley. “I-I...”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder.” Donna says. She’s not looking at him, but she’s biting her lip, hard.

“How did you know?” Josh himself had no clue.

“Like I said, you’ve been hurting. I did some research.”

“Oh.”

“Is that what he said, the therapist?”

“Yeah.” Josh says.

Donna turns into the parking lot. The ER looks blessedly empty and they sit for a quiet moment. Then Donna pats his shoulder and jerks her chin as to say, let’s do this, and they get out of the car.

It’s not a long wait. Donna sits in the room, reading articles, as Josh gets the cut cleaned out and disinfected and sewn up and re-bandaged. It looks more contained, with the clean white gauze wrapping it. Like he can handle it, like this.

It’s midnight when they leave the hospital. He nearly falls asleep on the way back, and doesn’t even question when Donna parks the car in front of his apartment and pulls a bag out. The super’s already patched the window, thank God.

He sits heavy on the couch and leans his head back and Donna is in the kitchen.

He smells chamomile and honey, and cracks an eye open to find a cup of tea in front of him on the table, and Donna sitting on the other side of the couch with her hair in a ponytail and her shoes kicked off. She turns on the TV and flicks it over every single news station, fully ignoring Josh’s noises of protest, until she’s found _It’s a Wonderful Life_. Josh picks up the tea with a non-bandaged hand.

“Donna?” He asks. She’s turned on the heat. It’s warm and the painkiller they gave him is starting to kick in. “Don’t you have to go home?”

Donna turns, and Josh realizes she’s swearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. When did she change?

“No, not tonight.” She says, resolutely. “I thought tonight, we could just watch some movies.”

“Oh.” Josh says dumbly. “Okay.”

He’s pretty tired. As Jimmy Stewart throws rocks through a window he finds himself drifting off, and when he wakes up to Auld Lang Syne, his head is somehow in Donna’s lap, and she’s got her fingers in his hair. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare make this moment any more or any less than it is, so she keeps combing through his hair, thinking he’s asleep, and soon enough, he is again.

He sleeps through the night.


End file.
